


landslide

by layton_kyouju



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Gen, I said in the tags of a previous fic that all I write is hurt/comfort. that was a lie apparently, Mentions of dubious consent, There is no comfort here, mentions of manipulation and abuse, references to the books, references to witcher 1 and witcher 2, triss critical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 15:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21460252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layton_kyouju/pseuds/layton_kyouju
Summary: A bard and a witcher meet in a tavern.The punchline isn't very funny.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 84





	landslide

Cool magenta and pale violets painted across the wide horizon. The boughs of the pines above scored over the deepening colors like fractured glass revealing the void beyond. Lazy clouds drifted on, edges laced in pink and orange, ignorant to all beneath them.

Quite a sight, he had to admit. It made his lyrical heart sing.

A shaft of wheat sat between his lips, as there should be when one rides on the back of a cart full of hay and straw. The earthy scent filled his nose. Dried stalks poked and prodded through his vibrant clothes, which had not been cheap, but he could find far worse transportation. He was grateful, regardless.

Somber warbles of birds roosting for the evening drifted through the cooling air. A dig of anxiety pulled in his gut. In just an hour or two darkness would fall, and despite how appreciative he was, he could only tolerate so many days on a bumbling wagon.

As he propped himself up, relief flooded him. Pinpricks of candlelight shone through the trees down the shaded road. As they drew near, the geometric shapes of the homes that contained them emerged into view among the sea of bark and lush foliage.

“Ho, lads!” He pulled the maroon cap from his head and waved it in the air, its bright heron feather billowing behind it. “I shall take my leave here!”

On cue, and with an irritated groan from the horse pulling the weight, the wagon shuddered to a halt. Tightening the strap of his lute across his chest, the bard hopped from the back of the cart. His boots thumped against the soil.

“Thank you, sirs!” he called to the drivers with a wave. The father and son perched on the seat returned it.

“Yer welcome, Master Dandelion!” the older man shouted, grinning despite his craggy, near-toothless maw. “If ye find yerself in our neck of the woods again, please stop in! The missus'll have a pot of stew ready for ye!”

Dandelion gave a swooping bow, a broad smile on his face. “I look forward to it!”

With a crack of the reins, and a snort from the aging horse, the cart was on its way again, bobbing down the shoddy road. A dense cloud of dirt kicked back.

The blinded troubadour coughed and hacked, flapped his hands in front of his face to fight off the plume. After blinking the stinging grit from his eyes, sight returned. His oblivious ride toddled behind a cropping of trees, into the nearing dusk.

Dandelion patted the dust and hay from his colorful tunic. Once the unwanted flakes and filth settled on the path at his feet, he assessed the small village around him, the bustle growing quiet as the sun continued its descent.

Truth be told, the village was more of a hamlet, a little grouping of old wooden buildings with thatched roofs lining the dirt road. Laundry tethers shifted in the evening breeze, their work done for the day. Faint conversations echoed from the nearby homes, smoke wafting from their stone chimneys. Supper would be ready soon.

A cluster of four horses hitched beside one structure with a weathered timber sign - a stein filled past the brim with frothing ale - was reassuring that these people were civilized enough company for the night.

His destination decided, the poet moved forward with the promise of a warm fire and a cold drink, perhaps a few pairs of eyes sparkling in awe as he recounted a tale or two.

And no straw jabbing his back.

The door creaked of old bones as he stepped inside. The place smelled as any tavern did, and Dandelion had been to many in his day; stale beer, damp wood, sizzling meat, and a faint hint of urine and vomit. It was almost welcoming in its familiarity. A round wooden fixture hung down from the ceiling, the candles adorning its circumference sending a pleasant glow over the surfaces and walls. For such a small outpost, they must have enough traffic to keep the place in an adequate state.

Most of the little place was empty, quiet. Three men sat at a table by the roaring fireplace. Playing dice poker, judging by the light clattering on the wood surface, followed by a curse from one man and a cackle from another.

Behind the counter at the opposite wall, a balding man stood over a pot in a separate hearth, mixing its contents. He blotted at his forehead and cheeks with a stained cloth shoved in his apron.

One other patron sat away from the rest at the center of the tavern, their back to Dandelion.

The bard froze.

An unmistakable sweep of white hair tied back - although he had mistaken it a number of times to find he was embracing an intoxicated old man reeking of piss. The leather, silver-studded armor weighing on the sturdy form and the twin sheathed swords leaning against the table told a more familiar story.

“Geralt?”

The figure tensed. A quirk of their head to the side.

“Geralt!" Joy, dizzy and shining. His limbs felt unencumbered by long days of travel, of waiting. Dandelion vaulted across the floor and slid onto the bench beside the other man. The sharp, grizzled profile before him was _ definitely _ unmistakable.

"My friend, how are you? It’s been, what, two months since you left for Loc Muinne? What was it like? Did you find the ones who framed you? I assume so since you're here and not, well, in jail or dead.” The words span so rapid and constant from his lips it was a miracle they didn't stumble. They couldn’t come fast enough. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

The poet's hands danced through the air as he went on regaling. "Staying behind was such a chore, wondering what all was happening, and then Zoltan and I hadn't heard from you in ages! I was very worried, but you know our old Zoltan, nothing can put a chip on his shoulder. He decided to stay back with Yarpen and the others, by the way. Catch up and all that, work some business matters, fix up Vergen.”

Dandelion shrugged. “I couldn't ignore the call of the open road any longer, though. Wanderlust and all that, you know, getting antsy." He pressed a thumb to his sternum with a chuckle. "Can't keep this one anywhere for long."

At last, the bard took a breath. He relaxed, one elbow against the table, and grinned at his friend. “I really am so glad to see you. Ah, is Triss here, too?” He eased back and glanced around. He didn't know how he could have missed her.

“No.” Geralt's breath carried the heady stench of vodka.

Dandelion looked back to the slouched witcher, curious, his other questions and ramblings forgotten. “Oh? Why’s that?”

“We parted ways.” No hesitation. His voice hard and chilled as iron. Facing forward, eyes shadowed by his brow in the dim light of the pub.

The troubadour frowned. Burdens he had been relieved of moments ago returned to gnaw at his muscles and bones. “I'm so sorry to hear that. Did something happen?”

Geralt was quiet for a moment. His mouth pulled in a taut, thin line.

“I remembered, Dandelion.”

“Hm?”

“My memory, it's back.” He must have found something interesting in his tankard. “Completely.”

The wide smile returned to Dandelion's features as he placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and gave it a hearty shake. “Geralt, that's fantastic!” The glee that filled his chest was dampened, however, as the grim sight before him remained unchanged. He let out something resembling a laugh, but it was too stiff to be genuine. “Although, you don't seem to feel the same.”

The witcher paused again. His body was like stone beneath the bard's palm.

“Why didn't you say anything?”

Dandelion leaned away, his hand slipping from Geralt's back. Cold. Crawling up his veins, closing in on his heart. Worry, confusion, and unease mingled together in a knot. “I'm not sure I understand.”

A laden sigh left Geralt's lungs, a scrape of blades. “All through Vizima and after, I had no idea who I was. People recognized me, but there was nothing, just a couple vague little stories about someone else.” He ran his thumb over the handle of his mug, slow and precise.

When the poet remained silent, Geralt pulled his lips back to show a flash of sharp canines. An irritated grunt. Some muffled profanity grumbled in his throat, but Dandelion couldn't make out which. 

He shook his head, white hair spilling around his neck. “The only time you were capable of shutting up about me was when you could have been helpful," he murmured.

Dandelion recoiled, the statement hitting like a slap in the face. A forger's hammer to steel. All excitement about the sheer serendipity of finding Geralt was sent careening out the window.

“Wh-!? Excuse me?” His brow contorted as he reeled for a response. “I'm sorry, but I didn't want to force you or skew things for you.”

That was what he told himself, anyway.

The witcher looked back to the stained table. He let out a dry huff. “Don't worry. Other people took care of that." Raising his stein, he took a long, insatiable swig. The mug then hit the table with a hard _clunk_. Geralt swiped the side of his hand across his mouth, along the sharp rasp of an unkempt beard. He stooped forward with a quiet, "A certain sorceress in particular.”

The bard lost all words. A rare occurrence. His tongue went dry, sticking to his teeth.

White noise of clicking dice, a wooden spoon stirring broth, and whispering fire filled the miles between them.

“Why didn't you say something?” Dandelion's voice felt too loud and too little at once.

For the first time, Geralt met the troubadour's gaze. Gold rimmed red with drink and unshed tears, dark bruising swooping beneath in harsh valleys. Weeks without a good night's sleep; he always did have a problem with nightmares.

Eyes that seemed older than when they had last seen one another.

“Because I didn't know it was happening," Geralt bit back. "Or thought it was supposed to happen?” His fingers dug across his gaunt features.

The words continued to pour.

“Fuck, I don’t know, I felt so sick. And confused. All that other shit was going on, sucking me in. She said things that only Y-" 

He halted, swallowed the rest, gears shifting on a dime. "And Alvin, he was only a little boy, I just wanted to keep him safe. So much like Ciri. But I didn't even know she existed, and now it kills me. And I think I killed his older self? Or whateverthefuck?"

He cupped his face to close out the world. "I tried to- I tried-” He sank further into himself, lithe body rigid, air coming in shallow gasps. Geralt was not a slight man, but somehow he managed to look so small as he curled over the bench.

Dandelion leaned in on instinct, blood pounding in his ears as he tried to pull back the witcher from the rapids he was swept away by. “Geralt, please take a breath. What are you trying to say?”

Seeing him this way was beyond surreal. His heart so carved open and bleeding, crumbling down. The poet had been told that even during Geralt's recovery in Brokilon, when he felt that everything he loved and cared for had been torn out of his reach, he still kept most of it bottled inside. He would lay on the cool moss, miserable, staring into the dense forest beyond. The dryads tended to him, cared for him in any way they were able. He said nary a word.

However, Dandelion didn't recall there being vodka in Brokilon.

The witcher's haggard gasps began to slow and deepen. His fingers slipped from his face, but he continued to stoop away from his company.

“You knew how I felt about Triss, the things she did to Ciri. Yen." Softer, "Me." A faint clear if his throat.

"You said nothing,” he rasped.

The bard's stomach plummeted in his gut. Ice crystallized in every nerve, consuming him. “I thought you were happy.”

_ Wham. _

Geralt's palm slammed against the table, his fingers gnarled like a harpy's talons as he whipped around. “_Happy!?_” he roared, “I had no idea what the fuck was going on! I was terrified when I woke up at Kaer Morhen. After a day I thought things would be okay, but then it all went to shit so fast. A kid _died _because of me, and then I was on my own with nothing but a map, two swords, and my name."

His anger appeared to fizzle away into something broken and empty, aching. "Just trying to help, but _I_ was like a kid, so damn stupid.”

Fist clenched on the wood. His leather gloves squeaked as his forehead pressed against his hand. “Over and over and over,” he whispered.

Dandelion moved to touch the witcher’s arm again, but he then thought the better of it. He felt the burn of eyes watching them from both ends of the tavern.

A swell of guilt rushed in Dandelion's core. Damn. He really messed up.

The troubadour pulled the cap from his head and clutched it in his hands. Anxious fingers tugged at the fabric. “I didn't intend to - I didn't think keeping things quiet would do this. I tried to tell you the truth. I'm sorry.”

“I’ve heard something like that before.” Geralt raised his head with eyes narrowed as their gazes locked, his pupils the width of a single hair. “Lying by omission is still lying,” he said, low, dangerous territory. “_They _ were the truth.”

Mistake. “Okay, yes, you're right," Dandelion admit, wringing the soft fabric in his grasp, “b-but I had no idea if Yennefer and Ciri were even alive! I didn't want to bring them up for you to find out they were gone. I didn't want to make things worse.” His eyes darted around the room, processing nothing, before falling back on Geralt's neutral expression when no reply came.

He just stared for a moment.

Betrayal passed over Geralt's face in the fading light. “I would rather know they were dead than not know them at all.” He frowned. “You knew. A bunch of you did. Everything I would do for them, all that I _ have _ done. After everything, you knew. You didn't say a word.”

Panic rose up, seizing the bard's throat, tight and breaking his voice. “You were _dead,_ Geralt! I saw you bleed out in front of me! And then years later you just showed up out of nowhere! I didn't know what to do, and then it was too late! I'm sorry!”

The hurt melded with rage in an instant, like the vodka had been tossed into an open flame.

“_You_ didn't know what to do? _Too_ _late?!”_ A harsh breath left his nose, almost a hiss. A snarl, deep rattling. "You always were a selfish _prick_. Everything had to revolve around you. Only cared about how many people you could _fuck_.”

Pain. Sharp, burning, ripping down every nerve. Combusting into fury. Dandelion slapped a hand to his chest, the other gripped in a trembling fist. “Well, this ‘selfish prick’ tried his best to help you time and time again, but you were always too much of a brooding, self-hating _asshole_ to accept it!”

The screech of the bench as Geralt stood, towering like a looming mountain. “How can you act like you did the right thing after keeping them from me?!" he bellowed. "I know you and Yen didn’t get along, but she still saved your sorry ass more than once! It wasn't your decision to make!”

This is what it must feel like, a distant part of Dandelion's brain mused. Being a witcher's prey. Could Geralt hear his pulse? Sense his breath? Burning eyes glowing like embers in the void. Teeth a hint too sharp behind lips drawn back in a furious sneer. Power coursing through refined muscle, flowing with magic and adrenaline and blood.

Unfortunately, that didn't stop his traitorous tongue.

The poet shot up to his feet, threw his hat down onto the table. Sweat-soaked hands shaking at his sides. Fear? Wrath? “Unlike those _sorceresses, _I can't read your mind, Geralt! You can't blame me for things you have or haven't done!”

Tight at Dandelion’s neck. Floating, no ground. Breath hot with alcohol. Clawing at the leather clutching his collar. Gold blazing like a scorching fire.

Devouring.

Fist raised.

“Sirs!” the innkeeper hollered, his face red as a beet and dotted with sweat. “If you're to have a scrap, take it the fuck outside!” he commanded, jamming a finger toward the door.

Hush.

Geralt let go.

Dandelion wobbled on his feet as they met the floor, quakes rippling from his knees.

Geralt's pupils were blown wide, a thin sliver of amber around twin pools of darkness. He stumbled back. Jaw opening and closing, stuttering. So pale.

“I gotta go.”

Geralt loosened a small pouch at his hip and withdrew a few coins. He paused, glaring at the money in his gloved palm, then seemed to give up and slapped the change on the filthy table.

In a swift motion, he tore his swords from the bench and made a break for the door, his boots pounding on the worn wood, the clatter of mail and silver.

Dark shadow standing in the open threshold against the gloom. A loud slam, and he was gone. Thundering hoofbeats into the night soon followed, then faded into the hungry silence.

Dandelion stood in the middle of the room, eyes fused to the spot where his friend had been, had left.

Everything was far away, his head stuffed with cotton. Soles of his feet nailed to the ground. The eyes of the other patrons staring holes through him meant nothing. His own hands felt wrong, belonged to someone else, controlled by someone else.

His fingers reached under the hair curling by his temple. Felt the faint line of hard, puckered skin. An old scar now, but one he had gotten on a journey with people he missed dearly. And Geralt. Geralt who held Dandelion against back as they fled on horseback into the night, arrows soaring through the dense trees as the bard feared each breath would be his last.

Geralt who said it would be fine.

Dandelion found his sense of self again after a moment, weak sensation returning to his numb legs. He limped to the farthest corner of the tavern and sat on a bench facing the wall.

His cap lay forgotten on the table. The bright feather sprawled out among the mess of stale crumbs and old beer stains.

He wept in silence.

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to the newest installment of "canon made me mad, so I make an attempt to adjust it to What I Want, also can we pls acknowledge how horribly geralt got treated"
> 
> as I'm sure I've said before, it really irritates me that dandelion knows geralt so well and they have been through so much together, yet he acts pretty indifferent to geralt’s struggles regarding his memory and kind of mean at times (esp a remark in w2 about geralt having 2 women yet none. gross. the fuck.) the lack of genuine feelings depicted for these two in the games makes me so sad/angry/etc. yeah dandelion's a thot, but he still cares for geralt so deeply. I'm pissed.


End file.
